Page 18 of Bedtime Stories
I stride over, carefully lifting the collapsed nylon off the boy, who clings to a pole as though it’s a life raft. Oren trails beside me with way more confidence in my ability than I have.
“You see?” Oren whispers, nudging my side. “Trial Daddy or not, you’re a hero.”
I swallow, trying to ignore the way my chest tightens. A hero. To him. And somehow, just the idea of living up to that is both terrifying and… completely worth it.
Once Timmy’s tent is upright again, I stand and glance at Oren. He’s watching me as if I’ve just performed some magic trick, and I can’t help but grin.
“Are you ready for the rest of camp?”
He nods. “Yeah. But only if my Daddy’s with me.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Guess I’m stuck, then.”
And in that moment, I realize just how fast this little guy got under my skin—and that I’m not sure I want to ever get unstuck.
The counselors herdus toward the main lodge, a cheerful building painted in bright reds and yellows. Littles scamper ahead, their laughter ricocheting across the clearing. I fall into step beside Oren, keeping a hand lightly at the small of his back. He leans into me just slightly, and I feel… anchored.
The activity director—a guy in cargo shorts with a whistle dangling from his neck—claps his hands like a drill sergeant with a grin.
“Welcome to Camp Haven, Littles, Middles, and Daddies alike! Let’s get started with a few rules before you run wild in the woods.”
I recognize him from the club. He’s usually a bartender and fills in as a dancer on certain occasions.
Oren’s fingers brush mine when we pass a log bench, and I squeeze gently. One of the rules, the buddy system, is repeated three times, and I make a mental note to never let him wander alone. When he gets to the rules stating no streaking through camp, wearing clothes at all times, and no public sex, predictably, all the Littles gigglesnort.
The director launches into a lighthearted orientation, showing us where the mess hall is, the bathrooms, and the ‘Don’t-feed-the-squirrels’ zone. Every so often, a Little yelps in excitement or stumbles over a root, and I’m there with a steady hand, absorbing any surprise that comes our way.
Oren’s wide-eyed as he takes it all in, and I notice how he keeps fussing with his name badge.
“Look at all this,” he whispers, voice hushed. “It’s huge.”
“I know,” I murmur. “But I’ve got you.”
We pause at the big notice board where schedules and rules are pinned. Oren traces a finger along the printed daily activities, the itinerary making him smile. I feel proud, not for myself, but that he’s opening up enough to notice, to enjoy, to let me be here.
By the time the orientation winds down, I can see Oren’s shoulders relax. He’s still nervous, obviously, but he’s starting to trust that I’m not going anywhere.
“Come on,” I say, offering him my hand. “Next up is crafts. Let’s see that creative flair I’ve been hearing about.”
He grins and takes it without hesitation. I can’t stop the hum of amusement and affection rising in my chest. This is just the beginning, but already… I’d follow him anywhere.
The table lookslike chaos with glitter scattered, markers rolling, and glue sticks losing their caps. Littles dive into the treasure trove, chatter bouncing in every direction.
Except Oren.
He lingers at the edge of the bench, shoulders tucked in, fingers twitching near the pile of blank cards. His friends are already knee-deep in feathers and stickers, but he just sits there, staring as if the whole thing’s a test he’s about to fail.
My chest tightens. I’ve seen hardened criminals with more confidence than that look on his face.
I lean down, close enough that only he can hear.
“Hey. Doesn’t have to be perfect, kiddo. Just has to be yours.”
He glances up at me. Just one glance, but it hits like a punch. Those big, uncertain eyes… and then, slowly, a breath leaves his body, and his hand finally moves.
Marker to card. Hesitant at first, then quicker, as if he’s been waiting for permission. A duck with a crown takes shape, wobbly rainbow overhead, stars scattered around. He writes something goofy—You’re quack-tastic!—and his cheeks go pink when his friend snickers.
I want to tell him it’s brilliant. That it’s more than brilliant—it’s him. But all I do is set my hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze.
